


The Habits Of My Heart

by beautifulsolitude03



Category: Girl Meets World
Genre: Angst, F/M, Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-20
Updated: 2016-08-20
Packaged: 2018-08-09 23:33:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7821565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beautifulsolitude03/pseuds/beautifulsolitude03
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You pivot on swift feet as you walk away. Widening the chasm that lies between you two. The one you both allowed to grow when you decided to step back, and he let you. And you suppose that's the whole point.</p><p>After all it was always Riley.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Habits Of My Heart

**Author's Note:**

> (AU) In a world where the idea of soulmates is absolute.

It starts of as an impossible thing.

Matthews' words swirling in your head. "What's your horizon line? Write down the one thing in life you consider impossible."

He instructs the class to write it down, while he'd given you a pointed look, "You hold your world in your hands, take a shot." Or some uplifting shit like that. It makes you want to have faith that life is fair and that all people are good, and kind. Matthews' holds out the trashcan, and encourages you to throw it in. You do it, a small smile tugging at your lips. And you're so close. Almost infinite. Almost free.

The crumpled paper still hangs, pinned to your walls, half veiled by photographs of you and Riley. It feels so long ago when you kidnapped it from the trash. Knowing then, that your thin hope wasn't enough. Would never be.

You're feeling disgustingly sentimental, so you take it down. A bitter laugh escaping your mouth. Though there really isn't anything funny about it.

I will forgive him for fucking me up. And maybe one day I'll forgive Sunshine Kid for falling for him first.

*

You're at a party.

It's at Sarah's place. No not Sarah's. Yogi's. Or at someone else's entirely. You're not so sure, everything has a faint blur to it. And faces slowly swirl in and out of focus.

I might need glasses, you think, distantly.

Maybe your at Darby's or Brenda's place? You can't quite remember.

You do recall with painful detail wandering into a dark corner and accidentally catching your best friend making out with Ranger Rick. You can still feel the scorching pull as you downed three straight shots of whiskey. Could almost feel the empty swooping sensation in your stomach all over again.

You think that Riley must be tipsy, because… Fuck… And the images are not exactly burnt on the inside of your eyelids but it feels pretty close.

You're no better. Not really.

But this is expected from you.

You're supposed to be the girl who drinks a bit- a lot- too much. Who kisses as many girls as she can. And fucks as many guys as she wants. This is all that you are. What makes you you. Well, as far as the people who spin the stories are concerned.

This reputation was yours before you were even ready for it. People threw it on your slight shoulders and shaky frame because your dad skipped out when you were young. And your mom still believes she's an actress playing the role of a waitress. This is the legacy you're left. You don't bother to tell your mother that the show was over a long time ago.

But you're Maya Hart. Rebel, bad girl, trouble maker, wild child, Queen of detention, and bad grades. The labels go on, and on, get worse as you grow older. It's expected that not much is expected from you. And you cater to this belief. There isn't anyone you could possibly disappoint. This is a freedom you used to hate, but over the years have grown to love.

There will be no parental reprimands with your mother's work hours. And even if she did notice that sometimes you came home later than her, she doesn't question your whereabouts. Or even acknowledge that you weren't home. This is your unofficial green light.

You can get as hammered as you want. And you do.

*  
Everything is hazy. But Huckleberry is at your side, apparently walking you home. You're not sure what happened to your honey, but you expect the Good Ranger here probably begged Farkle to make sure his girlfriend-soulmate?- got home safe. His strong hand is at your waist as he steadies you. Your bumbling feet stumbling every couple of feet, and you're not sure why but this makes you snort out a soft giggle.

He chuckles against the crown of your head. His breath gently brushing your temple. And he is too close. He smells like heat, like woodsmoke. Like a distant campfire.

A brow raises of its own accord as you huff in drunken annoyance. "What so amoos- amus-" Your mouth tries to form the word, but you can't seem to remember how.

"Amusing?" His body shakes with the force of trying to hold in his laughter. He looks happy. And your silly heart contracts softly.

"That's it!" You exclaim loudly, shoving him a few inches away. He eyes you knowingly, but he doesn't comment. And though his lips are tight when he offers you a smile, you continue to chatter.

"What's so amusing? Huh, Lucas?" You poke a dizzy finger into his chest, or maybe his rib. Your not sure which.

He catches your finger, his own curling around it. A soft gasp escapes your traitorous lungs. And your traitorous heart beats at an electrifying pace. Because Goddamnit! Hasn't this been going on long enough? Is this overplayed song a broken girl's lament?

You remind yourself that it was always them. The universe demanded it be so. Ever since "fate" pushed Riley into his lap. It was always RileyandLucas. Not Riley and Lucas or Lucas and Missy, or Lucas and Smackle. Or even… even—

Your stomach churns wildly as if there is an unforgiving ocean that exists inside your belly. An ocean always threatening to overtake you. You wrench your hand from his, and stumble to the building on the side of you. Retching violently on the slide walk.

He comes to your side. Golden boy personality on full display as he holds your hair up and gently rubs your back. The churning in your stomach becomes a hurricane. A raging storm that you can not begin to control.

You shrug him off. Wipe your mouth on your sleeve. Straightening as you look at the sixteen year old baseball star. Really look at him.

Your head annoyingly still only comes up to his chest. Seriously the boy was five foot ten, and you had only grown and inch or two more before stopping. His chestnut hair is messy (probably had to do with his little adventure with Riley) and his handsome face sporting a small secretive grin.

All you can do is watch, an outsider in your own body, as small pale hands (not your own, they couldn't possibly be) raise past his chest, to settle on his back. Sharp nails (not your own, you'd never allow it) bite into the skin of his broad shoulders.

He winces but doesn't, can't move.

And it's always been this way. You and him. Always. And you know the universe did not intend or plan for it. This pointless tugging, pulling, shifting closer.

You clench the muscles in his shoulders harder. A desperate something inside of you, wanting to leave a mark, your mark. Wanting to bruise, to scar him. To imprint your hands, your fingers, your nails into the skin, the bones of his shoulders.

His bottle green gaze catches your blue one. His eyes sad and searching.

"Maya?"

Something inside of you hiccups. You think it might've been your heart. Or maybe even your soul. But you are not his, and he is not yours.

Your best friend and him were the predetermined lovers.

The fated soulmates.

After you're sure your nails have left scars into his skin, you shove him. With all the force and will you have in you. And your so screwed up that you think it's kinda poetic how he doesn't end up no more than a few feet away. How it represents your dynamic, your relationship; Turbulent, wild, and ultimately unhealthy. You're push, and he is pull. Or Quite possibly he is the push, and you're the pull. You're still not completely certain who started and began this. But it always ends the same. There is no in-between for you two. You two ran too cold, or too hot. And that's just how it was. How it is. The universe declared you doomed from the start.

He has a wounded look etched into his face, and for a second you think you hear a soft whimper. The sound pierces you, runs you right through. But you don't stop. You clench your teeth. Ignore the ache in your chest. And become the story. The rumor. The cold creature everyone knows that you are. A cold glare slips upon your face. Telling him without words; Go home.

He belongs to Riley. Always has.

Ever since that destined meeting in the subway.

They're soulmates. A dark cynical part of you snickers out.

For a second his eyes smolder a bright emerald. And you think he'll resist, he'll fight. You fear it. You fear him. And he must see this in your gaze, because the light snuffs out just as quickly as it formed. His shoulders seem to collapse inward, as he shrinks farther away from you. His jaw clenched, and his mouth a dry, unhappy line.

"I just wanted to be your friend." His voice comes out small, almost hoarse. "I wanted to take care of you… you're my friend."

Your eyes blur, and you're not sure if the blame lie with the burning in your throat, or the shitty situation you can't seem to escape. No matter how much you push, pull, shove, stop! He's still him. And you're still you. And you can't help but wonder if you're the only broken person whoever mistook kindness for love.

You lose whatever buzz you've been holding onto. As something inside you cracks, snaps, burns, and dissipates. You are snarling. Quivering in rage. How dare he? Who gave him the right? You didn't need him. You didn't need anyone. And you certainly didn't need to be babysat by a golden boy-goody two shoes. Or at least someone who masqueraded as such. Because even though he would never admit it he was not as perfect, moral, and as good as he pretended to be.

But that was okay. No one was that perfect. That great. And though you once told him this, it wasn't enough.

"Oh, Huckleberry, Huckleberry, no matter what bad, bad things you did at your last school, you're still such a Huckleberry."

Your fingers tremble.

"Fuck you, Mr. Perfect!" You screech in fury. Your voice spilling into the dark streets of your neighborhood. You can't find it in you to care. "Fuck your friendship. Fuck the universe. Fuck fate. And fuck soulmates."

He is stunned; jaw slack and muttering stupidly.

You pivot on swift feet as you walk away. Widening the chasm that lies between you two. The one you both allowed to grow when you decided to step back, and he let you. And you suppose that's the whole point.

After all it was always Riley.

**Author's Note:**

> The title of this fic was named after a song by James Young.


End file.
